


Tease (Reader version)

by apprenticeofcups



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bottom Julian Devorak, Breathplay, Canon Compliant, Choking, Collars, Dom Apprentice (The Arcana), Dom Lucio (The Arcana), Edgeplay, Epilogue, Hair-pulling, Julian Devorak's Route, M/M, Masochism, Multi, Not Epilogue Compliant, POV Second Person, Post-Canon, Sub Julian Devorak, Submission, Toys, abrasion play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 03:23:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19164820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apprenticeofcups/pseuds/apprenticeofcups
Summary: Julian gets a new collar and a whole day to break it in. No better way to celebrate saving all of reality than a little edge-play and choking.





	Tease (Reader version)

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote the first draft of this before the last chapters dropped, so it's not totally compliant with Books XX and XXI, but loosely-based on Julian's upright end.

            Malak watched the clock with one beady eye, waiting. The hour hand clicked into place over the faded  _VII_ , and he hopped off the kitchen counter, flitting into the bedroom and picking around the candle stubs and empty teacups on the nightstand. Lifting the edge of an old gingham pillowcase, he pecked once, twice in the center of Julian’s palm, waited a few seconds, and pecked again.

            Julian’s fingers twitched, arm retracting under the pillow, and he rolled away, stifling a yawn and burrowing into the patchwork comforter. With two quick flaps, Malak landed on his head, stepping in place in his wild, sleep-tousled curls, curved black talons pricking his scalp. Julian heaved a sigh, reaching up to scratch him under the blue-black beak, and slowly, carefully sat up, hoping to avoid—

            “Nn?” Uncurling from his chest, you squinted up sleepily.

            “Shh—” Kissing your temple, Julian tucked the homemade blanket around him. “Go back to sleep.”

            Instead, you watched him get dressed, scratching Malak absently while the raven nested on Julian’s abandoned pillow. “Going to the clinic?”

            “For a few hours.” Tucking in his shirt, he felt around on the floor, digging through discarded leather and silk rope for the scraps of black buried somewhere beneath. Pushing aside a leather flail, his fingers brushed the deep impressions of his own back molars in the handle. Julian swallowed, feeling the hard leather force into his mouth, snatching up his gloves and garters and stuffing them hastily into his waistband, keeping his head down to hide the blush.

            He heard you shift on the bed, and the jingle of metal on the nightstand. “We used a lot of  _tools_ last night, didn’t we, baby?”

            Shivering, he sputtered out a sheepish laugh, fumbling with the ties of his belt. “W-we, uh—we left quite the, um—trail of destruction—” Rubbing at the embarrassed flush on his chest, Julian ducked into the bathroom, your teasing laughter following him out. Splashing water on his face did nothing to wake him up or dispel the heat in his face and chest. Shuffling to the kitchen, he managed to catch his breath while he lit one of the burners on the stove, futzing through two matches before the kindling took, and setting the tarnished old coffeepot over the flames.

            “You don’t have to do it that way,” you said in a singsong, slightly annoyed tone, hovering in the bedroom door with the comforter hanging off your shoulders like a cape.

            “Ah.” Leaning back against the counter, Julian grinned and scrubbed the sleep from his eyes with one hand. “It took me decades to learn magic at all. It’ll be a few more before I can do it before coffee.”

            “That’s because you never practice.”

            Covering another yawn, he dumped a few dried blueberries on the counter for Malak. “There was a famous experiment by a doctor in Prakra—she rounded up a few dozen volunteers and fitted them with glasses designed by an alchemist to show the world as if it were upside-down.” He went back to the bathroom, wrangling his hair with a wide-toothed comb. “She and her assistants monitored them, asked them to keep journals—what was difficult to do, what was impossible, how did they feel. Amazingly,” he went on, in between brushings of his teeth, “after three days, every patient said their daily routines returned to normal—walking to work, running errands, even reading and writing—they’d all adjusted to their upside-down world.” Rinsing off his face, he flicked open his straight razor. “When they took off the glasses, same story—three days of stumbling around, bumping into things, then back to normal.”

            Very, very patiently, while the coffeepot bubbled behind you, you asked, “Which means?”

            “Three days.” Julian glanced at you over the chipped black handle of the razor. “Last week, we both thought we be chained in an ethereal world of fire forever. It takes three days for the world to right itself.” He washed the razor clean, wiped off his face, and returned to the kitchen, scooping you up and setting you on the counter. “After that, life goes on, with adventure and romance and magic practice.” Sliding a hand under your translucent dressing-gown, Julian kissed you softly, brushing bedhead out of your eyes. “Once everything’s right-side up.”

            “Mm…” Tilting your head back, you tangled a hand in his hair. “It’s been  _four_  days.”

            “Well, for us, the world was upside-down, inside-out, and reflected diagonally,” Julian murmured into your neck, feeling down your side under the sheer silk. “At least a nine-day adjustment.”

            Your other hand moved by his hip, and something small and metallic pressed against his chest. “I think you’re just making excuses."

            He looked down. Two fingers held a silver tag to his chest, flat and coin-sized. Under your fingertips, the etched-calligraphy  _Baby_  was barely visible. The coffeepot shrieked out steam, and Julian swallowed dryly, reddening all over, eyes fixed on the long, brand-new leather collar hanging from a D-shaped loop of metal.

            “Do you have patients today?” you asked sweetly, tipping his chin up with your free hand.

            “N-no,” he breathed, mouth starting to water just from the proximity of your fingers, nails perfect for brushing the back of his throat. “J—j—uh—just—prescriptions—to make—” The grip in his hair tightened, drawing out a moan.

            “You should wear your nice, new collar today.” Kissing softly under his jaw, you smiled. “I made it just for you.”

            “Aha.” He’d worn it for the first time last night, cinched tight, tag bouncing on his collarbones as he squirmed. “Right now?”

            Dragging the metal down his sternum, you dangled the collar in front of him. “Do you want to wear it tonight?”

            He shuddered, biting down hard on his lip and nodding.

            “Do you?”

            “Y-yes.”

            You smiled, running the leather strap over your tongue and moaning softly, eyelids fluttering enticingly. “Oh, you’d be so cute, trying to hide it all day…”

            Pawing open your dressing-gown, Julian ran both hands down to rub at your thighs. “I’ll do it—I’ll wear it—”

            Your legs parted, wrapping around his waist, grinding against his stomach. “All day, baby?”

            “All day—” He made a grab for it, shuddering when you smacked his hand away, stinging his knuckles.

            “Good  _boy_.”

            The words sent shivers over every inch of him. He panted while you slipped the leather around his neck, yanking it too-tight at first just to make him whine when it loosened. He squeezed your thighs longingly, humming happily when you shivered and ground into him, and leaned down to mouth over your chest.

            Sharply, you wrenched his head back by the hair, pouting. “ _No_ , Julian. Make your coffee.” Scooting past him off the counter, you pulled your gown closed. “You don’t want to be late, do you?”

            Julian crumpled forward on the counter, cradling his head and whining through his teeth. He swallowed, the collar bobbing against his neck, scalp still tingling from the hair-pull. A dull  _tink-tink-tink-tink_  of ceramic made him look up; by the stove, Malak tapped his beak on the green ceramic coffee canister, buffeting the steam from the pot with one grumpy wing. Rolling up his sleeves, Julian shook dark, spicy-smelling grounds into a filter, the bitter scent bringing him back to earth as he poured hot water through the paper into a knobbly, orange-glass reservoir. He fought off a few residual shivers, rinsing the cold dregs out of his dented old leather-wrapped canteen, while you shuffled around in the bedroom. “Will you be at the Palace today?”

            “A little later.” Half-dressed in yesterday’s clothes, you went into the bathroom. “I want to stop by the shop first for more clothes.”

            “And whatever Asra’s making for breakfast?” With a knowing glance over his shoulder, he wrung every last drop of near-black percolate out of the filter before pouring coffee into his canteen.

            “I don’t know what we’ll do when he moves out to the middle of the forest.” You sighed, wringing out a washcloth. “You know, you could swing by on your way to the Palace…I’m not a doctor, but I’ve heard solid food is a really smart way to start the day.”

            Squeezing in behind you to steal a corner of the mirror, Julian buttoned up his jacket, ever-so-subtly tugging his collar down to hide underneath. “I’d love to test your hypothesis, but I don’t want to be late.”

            You watched him struggle with a small smile, biting your lip. “You’re not seeing any patients. Why does it matter what time you get in?”

            Leather kept shifting away from his efforts, one edge popping out from under the high neck of his jacket. With a frustrated huff, Julian managed to tuck the collar of his shirt around it, buttoning the black leather over the whole mess, one button higher than normal, with marked difficulty. The extra layer of cotton between leather and skin was uncomfortably tight in the best way, bunched-up cotton dragging against his throat however he moved. He could only imagine the red, chafed-away mark he’d have later, tender and hot to the touch.

            “Julian?”

            He jumped, tearing his eyes away from the reflection of his many-layered collar. “Mn?”

            You laughed, running a hand down the front of his jacket, dangerously close to his waist. “It’s going to be a long day, isn’t it?”

            Julian took a deep breath, untying his belt to tuck in his jacket, throwing his gloves over one should and holding out his garters. “Could you, ah, hold those?”

            Without breaking his gaze, you leaned down and took the black leather straps out of his hand with your teeth.

            Squeaking out a “Thank you,” Julian tugged on his gloves, cinched his belt over his jacket, and gently took the garters back, flinching when you faked a snap at his fingers. Clearing his throat, he fled to the door for his boots. “Nadia likes to check in when I get there, but around nine, the Court starts chasing her down, meetings start cropping up, and it’s harder for her to get away.”

            “Then are you going to grab breakfast there?” you asked, combing out your bedhead. “I’m sure Nadia would rather eat with you than whomever she’s scheduled to.”

            “I don’t want to get in her way.”

            “A lot of people will see you today.” You pressed into him, sliding one hand down to his hips. “All red, sweaty—” You felt over the tented grey wool of Julian’s trousers and smiled, spreading your fingers with a mocking gasp. “Do you think they’ll  _know_?”

            Pit of his stomach twisting, hardening against your palm, Julian bit down on his lip, covering his eyes with one hand.

            “So shy.” You ran a thumb over his mouth, only to pull your hand away when Julian tried to suck on it. “I thought you liked to show off.”

            In the kitchen, Malak pecked at the clock face, and when that didn’t draw enough attention, bobbed expectantly on the counter.  _Awk._

            “Oop.” You pulled away, laughing when Julian almost fell over, hips shuddering forward from the urge to keep grinding against your hand. “Better go.”

-

            As expected, by the time he made it to the Palace, his shirt collar had rubbed his neck halfway to raw, chafing and uncomfortably warm. Julian kept his head down, weaving through the morning rush of servants and recently-promoted, anxious-to-please courtiers to his office door, groping unconsciously at the neck of his jacket until he could shut the door behind him and undo it.

            Nadia got up from the edge of his desk when he came in, adjusting a few scattered papers. “Good morning, Doctor.”

            “Ah, good morning, Countess—” Wincing, he dropped his bag by the side of the desk, throwing his coat over the leather-backed chair and avoiding her eyes. The discomfort from the walk over had him so electrified, even the sternness of her eyes or the regality of her poise might undo another lace of his very tenuous composure.

            “I was wondering—I'm sorry, are you alright?” She moved toward him, laying one firm hand on his arm, red eyes roving worriedly over his redder face.

            “Coffee.” Hastily, he dropped his half-empty canteen on the desk with a clunk. “Empty stomach.” Looking up at the ceiling, he sucked in a breath, letting it out slowly to try and calm his bounding pulse. “The usual.”

            “Yes, well…” Lingering, but not prying, Nadia glided toward the door. “You aren't overwhelmed today? No patients?”

            Julian nodded, rifling around on his desk for the list of prescriptions. “Just deliveries.”

            “Your aides can handle those,” she reminded him. “If you’ve any instructions to send along, they can relay them.”

            “If you don’t mind, Countess—” Some of the heat drained from his cheeks, and he sank slowly into his chair. “I like to deliver personally. Gives me an excuse to follow up without dragging them in for a full exam.”

            “Don’t be afraid to delegate, Doctor.” The austere edge in her voice stirred up his stomach. Nadia arched a tyrian eyebrow, but her eyes darted away from him. “I’d like you to leave yourself time for a checkup in the dungeons, today.”

            “Dungeons?” He frowned. “Lucio?”

            She sighed. “I know you examined and cleared him thoroughly, but he hasn’t been eating, which is  _very_ uncharacteristic of him.” Toying with her deep lapis pendant, she glanced at the door. “I’m not doubting your examination, of course, but—”

            “Better safe than sorry.” He looked at the towering stack of bloodred file folders in his cabinet, tight collar momentarily forgotten. “I understand.”

            “I know this is hard for you. Thank you, Julian.”

            The rare taste of informality shotgunned him back to hot and bothered, his breath catching in his throat. “My pleasure.”

            While she left, he took the two thickest files from the top of the tower, bound into a unit with gold cord, opening to his most recent notes. The minute the door closed behind her, he abandoned Lucio’s files and his desk, sprinting into the attached exam room and digging through the bottles of pills and powders and leaves in the cabinets. When he found it, he ripped open the neck of his jacket, yanked his shirt out from under the collar, reached back for the buckle—and faltered, panting, goosebumps trailing down his back and up into his hair as he ran a hand over the pink chafe-marks, hot and sore under the sleek leather of his gloves. If he let it go all day, it might be bleeding by the time he got home, layers of skin worn down so thin even the slightest touch would  _hurt_. Head lolling back, unable to stop caressing his burning, abraded skin, he felt around in a drawer for the tin of lavender-scented paraffin, something to soothe the constant rubbing of his clothes, but it was only temporary, since the heat of his skin would melt it, sticky and dribbling down his chest and back where no one could see and he couldn’t ignore, and  _oh_ , it would sting going on.

            Julian pulled off one glove with his teeth, sucking reflexively on the finger. He couldn’t hold back a moan as he slathered his collar-burn with soft lavender salve, pricking and stinging the rough surface, squirming under his own hands and leaking on himself inside his trousers. Drooling around the leather in his mouth, still horribly excited from the teasing in his kitchen, it was all he could do not to cum on himself then and there—but there was no one around to ask, and the idea of relief without permission was as unthinkable as slipping out of the collar that was tormenting him.

            Easing the white cotton back between leather and skin, he buttoned himself back up, wiping his hand clean on a surgical towel before putting his glove back on, and made himself some tea, as calming and herbal as possible. He couldn’t risk setting foot in the dungeons as flushed, sweaty, and wanting as he was—Lucio would smell it on him, and the last thing he needed with an unwanted examination was blood in the water around that kind of carnivore.

-

            When his breathing steadied and he could no longer hear the blood pounding in his ears, Julian went down to the dungeons, heavy leather bag over one shoulder, thick red file clamped under the other arm. The musty smell of damp rock and cold iron helped distract from the tightness around his throat, and the lavender was helping, too. Most of the cells were empty. The guards didn’t need to point him in the right direction; one glance told him which iron-barred door they were avoiding, just in time for a dinner plate to fly through the bars and shatter against the stone wall. Without flinching, Julian went over, dropping his bag loudly on the uneven floor.

            Inside the cell, the thin straw mattress and cot had been flipped over and thrown against the wall, a metal coffee mug crushed and leaking on the floor, and Lucio’s back was to the door as he flung food scraps through the barred window into the guards’ patrol yard. Without turning, he grabbed the tin meal tray off the empty desk and banged it into a non-tray-shape against the wall, snarling, “Are you here to bring me some decent fucking food?”

            Julian raised an eyebrow. “No.”

            “Then get the  _hell_ —oh.” Lucio whipped around to hurl the former tray at him, then stopped, letting it clang to the floor. “Morning, Jules.”

            “Good morning, whiny, nasal voice from my nightmares,” he replied coolly, searching his bag for a stethoscope while Lucio came over to the bars.

            “Missed you last night.” He smirked, lip curling back from his teeth, gripping one iron bar in his metal hand. “Not sleeping?”

            “Without you squatting on my chest like a goblin in white satin?” Fitting the stethoscope around his neck, Julian grinned. “Never.”

            “This is fun.” Reaching through the bars, Lucio trailed two fingernails over his black leather sleeve. “I never get any real flirting in nowadays. And you have no  _idea_ how long it’s been,” he added, voice dropping into a growl like red silk sheets and golden claws in his back.

            With Herculean effort, Julian kept his mind on plague, death, duty, and nothing else. “Three years, four months?”

            Lucio made a face, pushing away from the bars. “Sounds even worse, coming from you.”

            Exasperated, Julian stretched an arm into the cell, but he was just an inch too far. “Come back here. Nadia asked me to look you over.”

            “Why?” he snapped, bristling. “I’m not sick. You cleared me yourself. You can’t be  _that_ much of a quack.”

            Caustic as it was, Julian could see the fear peeking through the bravado, just like it had from his sickbed, fifty pounds lighter, drenched in blood, trembling in fear. He sighed, stripping off a glove and reaching through the bars again. “She’s just as worried as you are. She said you’re not eating.”

            Reluctantly, Lucio took his hand, allowing himself to be led closer. “I’m not worried. I know I’m not sick. I know how it feels better than anyone.”

            “You’re not the only one who had the Plague,” Julian reminded him, feeling his pulse.

            “Had it longer than any of  _you_ ,” Lucio shot back.

            He rolled his eyes. “Because it was coming from you.”

            “Semantics.”

            “You don’t even know what that means.”

            With a withering, pewter-eyed look, Lucio yanked his arm away. “I’m not eating because my darling wife insists on feeding me like a prisoner.”

            “You  _are_ a prisoner.”

            “ _You’re_ an insufferable string bean, but I’ll bet she doesn’t give you this swill.”

            “Alright.” Dropping his stethoscope back into his bag, Julian bent down and clicked it shut. “Goodbye, Lucio.”

            “Hello hello, what is  _that_?” One cold golden finger probed the back of his neck, hooking the thin strap of shiny leather peeking out of his collar and pulling it taut. In spite of himself, Julian gasped, letting the light pressure draw him up from the bag. Lucio grinned, tongue running over his bottom lip. “Oh, Doc. You shouldn’t have.”

            “I didn’t—” It came out in a breathless rasp, Lucio’s finger curling around the leather and tightening it around his neck. He let out a dry dob before he could stop it, eyes rolling back, tugging forward against Lucio’s grip so the collar pressed harder into his throat.

            “You don’t know how much I missed you, Jules...” The other hand closed around his throat, tormenting him with barely any pressure, nails just skimming over the slick, pink collar-burn. “But if you open this door, I’ll show you.” Then it clamped down, hard and unyielding, and he could hardly get a breath in, spine shivering and bucking, nails biting into his neck like hot needles, ruthless, hungry, demanding, he clung to the bars wishing he could slither through them and get  _more_.

            Lucio released him, and he slumped to the floor, fumbling his collars back in place and his glove back on and panting out ragged, helpless whimpers. Watching him expectantly, Lucio licked over his fingers, tasting for blood. “Good to know you still like  _that_.”

            Shivering uncontrollably, Julian gathered his bag and files to his chest and staggered to his feet. “N-nice try,” he panted, “but I’m not letting you out.”

            “Then let yourself in. I’ll make it work.”

            He shook his head, wiping the saliva from his chin. “I’ll see about your meals, but—” He gave a breathless laugh, turning to go. “I’ll find someone else to take care of me.”

            “I don’t want to take care of you,” Lucio called after him, metal fingers tapping absently on the bars. “I wanna  _destroy_ you.”

            The word shot up his spine like a lightning bolt, his head still spinning from the choking, and Julian tripped up the stairs two at a time. It wasn’t pretty, and it certainly wasn’t decent, but if he could get back to his office and lock the door—he hadn’t been choked in so long, and he wasn’t sure he’d make it home if he didn’t do something.

            “There you are!” You spotted him from the end of the hall, jogging over and holding up a round clay dish with a fitted lid. “Asra made omelets. I brought you one.”

            “Oh—thank you, my dear, that’s—” Quickly shuffling the file into his bag to free up a hand, Julian took the dish. “That’s so sweet of you.”

            “You look…red.” You sidled closer, dropping your voice lower. “Still wearing your collar?”

            With a shuddery breath, he nodded.

            You bit your lip, walking fingers up Julian’s chest. “Can I see?”

            “Muh—my office?”

            You nodded. Julian offered the crook of his elbow, and you took it, following him up the stairs, stroking and squeezing his bicep every so often through his jacket. When you reached the third floor, Julian didn’t so much as check for his aides or wait for the door to shut before throwing everything down in a flurry of papers, yanking open the front of his jacket, pulling the cotton barrier out of his collar, collarbones glistening with paraffin salve and sweat, collapsing in his desk chair.

            “Oh, Julian...” You teased, locking the door before climbing into his lap, massaging the front of his trousers excitedly. “You’re so cute.” You traced a finger around the gap between the collar and associated friction burn, wrapping your legs around Julian’s waist. “Does it hurt?”

            Moaning, gripping the arms of the chair, Julian rocked under you, the light touch searing around his neck. “Mm—hmm—”

            “Do you want me to make it better?” Magic ruffled through your hair, breath hot behind Julian’s ear.

            “Nn—no—” Healing would tingle and prickle like pins and needles, almost guaranteed to overwhelm him, but the day had barely begun, and he was  _sure_ he could be bleeding by the end of it. Kissing messily down your neck and chest, he gasped, “I can take it.”

            “You can take it?” Testing, you pulled at the buckle as though taking the collar off, and Julian whined into your shoulder. You laughed, patting the buckle back in place and turning your attention to Julian’s belt, slowly undoing the tassels cinching it around his waist. “I don’t think you can…”

            You shoved a hand down the front of his pants, fingers gliding down his cock, and Julian went limp, head falling back with a long, wailing moan, back spasming, hips rolling desperately into his hand, silver tag bouncing enthusiastically on his collarbones. One hand dug into his thigh under grey wool, the other pulling on him in long, languid strokes, and the gears of the chair creaked as he writhed in it. He grabbed a handful of his own hair, yanking on it til his scalp smarted, sobbing and reeling as you pumped him harder, faster, mouthing over his chest, licking under his collar til his rash stung, gasping sweet and velvety into his ear at his eager thrusts. Blindly, pleadingly, grasping at nothing, he stammered, “C—can I—m—may—”

            Your fingers dragged up his shaft, over his stomach, and away, sending him into a fit of aching convulsions, tearing at his hair to distract from the tight, gnawing pain between his hips, hurt that throbbed with every pound of his frantic heart, keening and crying into your chest.

            “Mm…not yet.” Licking your fingers one by one, you ran them over his feverish cheek, smiling and pushing him away when he tried to suck, fuck his desperate mouth on whatever he could catch. “All day, baby...”

            Mouth slack, clothes hanging open, damp with sweat and everything he’d dripped and drooled helplessly on himself, Julian could only watch as you got up, smoothed out his clothes, and flicked the silver dog tag. He flinched, mumbling, “All day.”

            “Mm-hmm.” You kissed him, deep and salacious, biting into his lip until he moaned, turning away when he tried to lick. “I’ll come check on you later.”

            Julian reached to paw at you but hesitated, fingers twitching. You grabbed his hair roughly, and he trembled, eyelids fluttering.

            “And you’d better not finish yourself off before I do,” you murmured, tracing down Julian’s cheek with the tips of your nails. “Or there’ll be hell to pay.” Wrenching his hair, you lunged forward to bite into his neck—and stopped short, plopping a light kiss on his cheek and smirking. “And not the kind you like.”


End file.
